


Frayed Thread

by ghostofgatsby



Series: Stitch by Stitch [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: "Hey, Smith! Hey!"Smith looks over his shoulder and stops. It's Trott, a friend he'd made at an open mic event a few months ago.“Hey, where you headed?” Trott asks him, catching his breath. “My place isn't too far from here. I'll walk with you, if you want. Is your place close?”“Er. I, um.” Smith shakes his head. He considers Trott a friend- his only friend, if he was counting, and he'd trust him enough to take him home, if he had one. But why is Trott asking, anyway? Smith fumbles his words. “Trott, if you're looking for something out of me, I don't…”(a prequel to Ribbons)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short thing about Smith and Trott in the tailor AU, based off of this snippet from Ribbons:  
> “He really does mean the thanks. He hopes Trott knows that. If they hadn’t met at an open mic one night at a local pub, hit it off, and became friends, Smith would probably be a lot worse off. Homeless, probably. Maybe even missing a finger or two from frostbite- the ultimate hobo. Who knows.”
> 
> cw: insecurity, homelessness, class differences, implied thought of sex work  
> if I need to tag something, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/27/frayed-thread-ghostofgatsby/

Smith is leaving the pub after the open mic, when a voice calls after him down the street.

"Hey, Smith! Hey!"

He looks over his shoulder and stops. It's Trott, a guy he'd met at the same place at an open mic event a few months ago. The other man had started talking to him after his first set that night, commenting on some of the songs he sang. They talked music after each show Smith played, and developed a friendship of sorts. But Trott had never approached Smith outside of the pub before. Did he forget his wallet or something? Shit. Smith pats down his pockets in a panic as Trott catches up with him. He wasn’t missing anything, though he could use a hat, himself. Summer had firmly settled into fall, now, and Smith was cursing his lack of cold weather protection. His ears were already freezing from the late night chill, and he’d just left the pub a minute ago.

“Hey, where you headed?” Trott asks him, catching his breath. His brown hair peeks out of his gray knit beanie, and it looks washed-out from the fluorescent street lamp shining down on top of them.

“Oh, just…” Smith waves his hand down the street he was walking. The wind blows past them, and he shudders. His coat is not thick enough for the coming winter. He's gonna have to find somewhere warm to curl up in tonight, or risk losing his fingers and toes. The shelter's too far to walk to at this time of night; the buses don't run over here, either. This pub is a pain to get to, but it reigns in a good deal of tips. Smith doesn’t have a choice, really- busking is his life.

“My place isn't too far from here. I'll walk with you, if you want,” Trott says, “Is your place close?”

“Er. I, um.” Trott continues forward a pace and stops when Smith doesn't follow.

“Sorry, is that a bit much?” He smiles and chuckles nervously. “I don’t mean to be rude. I know some people are a little wary about letting people know where they live…”

“It's not that! I just- I-” Smith shakes his head. He considers Trott a friend- his _only_ friend, if he was counting, and he'd trust him enough to take him home, if he had one. But why is Trott asking, anyway? He fumbles his words. “Trott, if you're looking for something out of me, I don't…” Not that he wouldn't...be _interested_ , maybe. He’s good looking, Trott is. Always dressed in expensive, well-tailored button-downs, probably made of silk and worth more than Smith could ever hope to own in this scrapped-together life he’s chosen. It doesn’t make any sense, really, that he spends time in a cruddy pub watching people sing bad karaoke. Shouldn’t he be sipping cocktails at some fancy shit bar, making business deals with old, stuffy colleagues? If he has money enough for nice clothes, he’d probably have money to spare.

Smith can’t ask him for money, though. Or, persuade him to exchange money for favors. He’s not worth much of anything, monetarily. And Trott’s too nice of a guy to want that from him, anyway.

“I’m not looking for anything, Smith, you just- you look like a guy who could use a place to stay, is all. A couch to crash on, or something.” Trott’s expression is open and genuine. It was the first thing Smith had noticed about him, besides his clothing- that he actually listened to what Smith said instead of purely throwing empty compliments about his singing.

Smith lets out the breath he'd been holding, waiting for judgement or pity over understanding of his situation. “Are you offering?” he asks. He shifts his guitar case on his shoulder. The weight of it and his backpack combined is digging into his muscles- he can't carry his things very far tonight, he's tired enough as it is. His glove catches on the frayed stitching on one side of his backpack strap, pulling another string loose. Fuck. Things just keep unravelling, as of late. Smith curses softly and shakes the offending string off of his glove.

Trott gives him a worried look, as if finally coming to the realization that, yes, Smith does call street corners his bedroom after all. “Do you need somewhere to stay?” he asks, “On my way to the pub I thought I saw you sleeping at a bus stop. My suspicions were confirmed when you joked about it before your set.”

Smith winces. He thought he’d recognized a face peering out of that tea-shop window across from where he was taking a nap earlier. He didn’t tell people outright that he slept wherever he could get it most nights, but he had made an offhand joke at the pub about how bus stop benches weren’t very restful sleeping places- the buses always wake you up every fifteen minutes.

Trott frowns. “If you need a place to stay, Smith, I'm offering. I don't want you to have be out here like this.”

The compassion in Trott’s voice makes Smith take mental stock of his own appearance. Fuck, he's a mess, isn't he? Secondhand patchy clothes stained with fast food grease. An unkempt beard, and too long, scraggly-looking hair. Trott's too kind to offer him this. He’s a walking, disgusting, disaster of a human being.

Smith can't pass up someone’s kindness, though. You’ve got to take what you’re given, when you’re down on your luck.

“Yeah, okay,” Smith says, nodding, “Okay. Anything to get out of this fucking cold.”

Trott laughs. “Alright. Come on, then.” He gestures onward and they continue walking.


End file.
